by Cliff, Nigel
As important as the officers to the mission’s success was a small group of interpreters. Among them was Martim Affonso, who had lived in the Congo and had learned several African dialects, and Fernão Martins, who had mastered Arabic during a spell in a Moroccan prison.
Less well regarded, but hardly less valuable, were the ten or twelve men known as degredados—“exiles”—who had been recruited in Lisbon’s prisons. They were convicts whose sentences had been commuted by the king to service on the ships. At Gama’s will, they were to go ashore in dangerous places to act as scouts or messengers, or to gather information until a later fleet picked them up.
The able and ordinary seamen were selected from veterans of the earlier voyages to Africa, and where possible from those who had sailed with Dias. Some were skilled in the various crafts that were vital at sea: among them were carpenters, caulkers, coopers, and ropemakers. Gunners, soldiers, trumpeters, page boys, servants, and slaves completed the full company, which altogether numbered between 148 and 170 men. In sharp contrast to many of the preceding voyages, the mission’s importance meant there was no place for foreigners. Naturally, women were not allowed on board.
Crucially, one of the sailors was given the responsibility, or took it upon himself, to keep a journal of the voyage. His is the only eyewitness account that has survived, and though there have been repeated attempts to identify him with one or another of the crew, we do not know his name. In our story, we will respect his anonymity and call him the Chronicler.
KING MANUEL HAD overseen the preparations from the old Moorish castle overlooking Lisbon, but as the warm weather returned and the heaps of rubbish in the streets began to raise their usual stink, he had decamped to a more salubrious spot. For their farewell audience Vasco da Gama and his captains rode east out of the city, passing through lush orchards and vineyards and waving fields of wheat and barley, then struck out across the rolling plains of the Alentejo to Montemor-o-Novo.
There they rode up through the village to another forbidding Moorish fortress. Behind its long crenellated walls the court was gathered in ceremonial dress. The king launched into a lengthy, high-flown address that laid out the glorious deeds of his ancestors and his determination to bring them to a still more glorious conclusion.
“Praised be God, by the power of the sword we have driven the Moors from these parts of Europe and Africa,” Manuel recalled, before reminding his audience why the impeding voyage was a natural continuation of that long campaign:
I have decided that nothing is more fitting for my kingdom—as I have often debated with you—than to search for India and the lands of the East. In those places, though they are far from the Church of Rome, I hope with God’s mercy that not only may the faith of Our Lord Jesus Christ His son be proclaimed and adopted through our efforts, and that we may win fame and praise among men as our reward, but also that we will wrest new kingdoms, states, and great wealth by force of arms from the hands of the Infidels.
Since Portugal had won titles and riches by exploring Africa, he added, how much more could be expected by pursuing the quest to Asia and acquiring “those Eastern riches so celebrated by the ancient authors, some of which have, through their business dealings, aggrandized such mighty states as Venice, Genoa, Florence, and the other great powers of Italy!” He was not about to reject an opportunity offered by God, he pointedly declared, and nor would he insult his ancestors by abandoning their long Crusade and the great expectations of which it held out hope.
When he had finished lecturing the numerous court skeptics who were less than ecstatic at the royal obsession with fantastical quests, Manuel introduced the man he had selected to lead the mission. Vasco da Gama, he told the assembly, had given a good account of himself in everything he had been asked to do, and he had chosen him “as a loyal knight, worthy of such an honorable enterprise.” The king conferred on the young commander a title that coupled together his responsibilities as both navigator and military leader. From now on, he was to be known as the captain-major of his fleet.
Manuel enjoined the other captains to obey their leader, and he urged them to pull together to overcome the dangers they were bound to face. Then every man filed past the king, knelt, and kissed his hand. When Vasco da Gama’s turn came, Manuel presented him with a white silk banner embroidered with the cross of the Order of Christ, and the captain-major knelt to speak his oath of allegiance:
“I, Vasco da Gama, having been commanded by you, most noble and mighty king, my liege lord, to discover the seas and the lands of India and the East, do swear on the sign of this cross, on which I lay my hands, that I shall hold it high in your service and that of God, and not surrender it to any Moor, pagan, or other race of people I may meet, and in the face of all perils, whether water, fire, or sword, always to defend it and protect it, even unto death.”
The king dismissed the visitors, and Gama returned to Lisbon. With him he carried his sailing orders and a packet of letters addressed to some of the great figures he was expected to meet on his travels—among them, of course, Prester John of the Indies.
On the eve of the great voyage, with excitement and trepidation contending in its leaders’ minds, perhaps none paused to weigh their king’s words very exactly. If they had, Manuel’s yoking together of religion, politics, and economics would scarcely have made them doubt their cause. Even men who did not concern themselves with such matters knew that a healthy, wealthy nation was a sign of God’s favor and a signal to carry on His work. To seek riches from cornering the spice trade was to strengthen the states that defended Christendom and to weaken Islam in turn. If the Italian mercantile republics suffered in the process, so be it; they had always seemed closer to the East than to the West.
Each man had his own motives for signing up; each man knew he was part of a larger pattern. Perhaps it was just as well, though, that they did not know just how large that pattern was. Vasco da Gama’s mission was not merely to reach India; it was to win allies and wealth there that would enable the Portuguese to invade the Arab heartlands and push on to Jerusalem itself. It was an astonishing thing, to be sure, that Europeans would sail halfway around the known world to end up near the eastern shores of the Mediterranean, but such was the belief in Prester John, the marvelous East, and the value of spices. It was extraordinary, too, that more than seven hundred years of history had been placed in the hands of at most 170 men, but true believers had an answer to that, too. If the means seemed hopelessly inadequate to the end, God would surely intervene to make up the shortfall.
PORTUGAL’S QUEST TO explore the oceans had begun with Henry the Navigator, but it had been advanced by the collective endeavors of a nation. Before he set sail, Vasco da Gama was entrusted with the intelligence gathered by four generations of Portuguese princes, captains, and sailors. The bishop of Tangier—the same ardent cosmographer who had prepared Pêro da Covilhã for his mission—furnished him with maps, charts, and reports, perhaps including the letters sent back by the intrepid spy himself.
The last provisions—fresh water, fruit, and bread, live chickens, goats, and sheep—had been loaded. The ships had left the docks and had anchored four miles downstream from the city. Nearby, behind a fine sandy beach, was the little village of Belém—the Portuguese name for Bethlehem. From the same spot a great armada had once sailed for Ceuta, and Henry the Navigator had built a little chapel to mark the spot. It had become a ritual for departing crews to pray there for success and a safe return, and on the evening of July 7, 1497, Gama rode out with his brother and his fellow officers and kept vigil until daybreak.
As the sun rose above the silvery waters of the Tagus, the sailors and soldiers rowed over to join them. The officers were clad in steel armor, their men in leather jerkins and breastplates. The seamen wore loose shirts, knee breeches, long hooded capes, and dark caps. With their families, lovers, and friends crowding the entrance, they squeezed into the somber chapel and celebrated a final mass. Then the bells rang and the cowled monks a
nd robed priests led the worshippers to the shore, each man carrying a lighted taper and intoning a litany. By now huge crowds had gathered, and they surged toward the beach, murmuring the responses and “weeping and deploring the fate of those who now embarked, as devoted to certain death in the attempt of so dangerous a voyage.” All knelt as a priest received a general confession and absolved the departing Crusaders of penance for their sins, and the full company rowed out to the ships.
The trumpets pealed, the drums beat out a tattoo, and the royal standard was hoisted to the peak of the captain-major’s mainmast. The banner of the Order of Christ fluttered from the crow’s nest, and the same Crusader cross flew from the mastheads of the three other ships. The anchors were heaved to the rhythmic chant of a sea chantey, the deck crews hauled on the halyards, and the sails slowly spread to reveal their own great crosses—the same crosses beneath which the Knights Templar had ridden into battle for the Holy Land.
A brisk breeze filled the sails and the fleet edged forward, imperceptibly at first, then with gathering pace. Even the youngest boy on board could hardly have failed to feel an electrifying jolt. In that moment a new life seemed to begin, a life that would be shared with unfamiliar companions and that would unfold in unknown places. As their homeland retreated into the distance a vast horizon opened ahead, bright with the anticipation of adventure but tinged with the fear of danger and death. Over the coming years the picture would be filled in; for now, it was enough to watch, and wait.
On board Paulo da Gama’s ship the Chronicler made his first entry. He noted the date—Saturday, July 8, 1497—and the place of departure. Then he added a brief, heartfelt prayer: “May God our Lord permit us to accomplish this voyage in his service. Amen!”
CHAPTER 8
LEARNING THE ROPES
AT FIRST EVERYTHING went smoothly. On Saturday, July 15, a week after leaving Lisbon, the four ships came in sight of the Canaries. They stopped at dawn the next day for a couple of hours’ fishing, and by dusk they had reached the broad inlet the earlier explorers, seemingly a long time ago now, had named the Gold River.
That night came the first taste of the dangers ahead. As darkness fell, a dense fog rolled in, and Paulo da Gama lost sight of the lanterns hung out on his brother’s ship. The next day the fog lifted, but an eerie silence remained; there was no sign of the São Gabriel or the rest of the fleet.
The Portuguese had long experience of such mishaps, and the São Rafael made for the Cape Verde Islands, the first appointed rendezvous. At daybreak the next Saturday, after nearly a week of empty horizons, the lookouts sighted the first of the islands. An hour later the storeship and the Berrio appeared, heading toward the same point. The São Gabriel, though, was still nowhere to be seen, and as the vessels regrouped the sailors shouted anxiously across to one another. They continued on the planned route, but almost immediately the wind died away and the sails sagged. For four days they drifted in a calm until finally, on the morning of July 26, the watch made out the São Gabriel five leagues ahead. By evening they had caught up, and the brothers brought their ships close enough to confer. It had been a bad omen, and to general joy the trumpets pealed and the gunners fired off round after round from their bombards.
The next day the reunited fleet arrived at Santiago, the largest of the Cape Verde Islands, and anchored off sheltered Santa Maria Beach. Already the yards and rigging needed repairs, and the ships stayed for a week, taking on board fresh supplies of meat, water, and wood. On August 3 they headed back out to sea, first sailing in an easterly direction toward the African coast and then changing course to the south. They were now in the dreaded doldrums, the region near the equator where dead calms trapped ships and threatened crews with slow death by thirst and starvation, then gave way to changeful gusts and sudden storms. As the vessels pitched and rolled, even veteran sailors were racked with seasickness, and the novices clutched their stomachs and threw up overboard for days on end. During one squall the main yard on the São Gabriel cracked in two and the great square mainsail hung flapping like a broken wing; for two days the fleet lay to while a new spar was fixed into place.
When they resumed, the ships steered to the southwest—a heading that took them into the very center of the Atlantic.
On every previous known voyage, every captain—up to and including Bartolomeu Dias—had kept his ships close to land as they labored down the African coast. Not this time. Perhaps the Portuguese had set out on secret missions—so secret that no trace of them survived—to unravel the wind patterns of the South Atlantic. Perhaps they had realized that square-riggers were much less well equipped than caravels to sail against the southeast trade winds and the north-going current. Or perhaps it was a mix of happenstance and intuition that led Vasco da Gama to head for the open ocean in search of the great wind wheel that would whirl him in a counterclockwise arc to the southern tip of Africa. If so, it was an astonishingly risky move. If he sheered off at the right moment, he would catch the westerlies that would speed him to his destination. If he got it wrong, he would be buffeted back up the coast of Africa—or even worse, he could be blown off the known face of the earth.
Gama’s men had no choice but to trust their commander. Their only companions were the great flocks of herons that kept pace with the fleet until they flapped off at night toward the faraway coast. One day a whale caused great excitement by surfacing nearby; perhaps, as on another voyage, the sailors made a racket with drums, pans, and kettles in case it decided to turn playful and capsize the ships. Otherwise they went about their tasks, and gradually they adjusted to the daily routine of life at sea.
Half hour after half hour, day and night, the sand ran in the hourglasses. Each time the ship’s boy turned the glass the ship’s bell rang; after eight bells, the watch changed. The departing seaman of the watch handed over to the new team by chanting an ancient ditty:
“The watch is changed, the glass is running! We shall have a good voyage if God is willing.”
Each day on board began with prayers and hymns. Every morning, on the boatswain’s orders, the deckhands pumped out the water that had seeped into the bilges, swabbed down the salty decks, and scraped the woodwork. The sailors adjusted the rigging, repaired tears in the sails, and made new lines from frayed ropes, while the gun crews cleaned their cannon and tested them with some target practice. To prepare to fire, they first loaded a stone ball into the long barrel, then rammed a powder charge into a cylindrical metal chamber. They wedged the open tip of the chamber into the breech end of the barrel, and put a smoldering stub of rope to a touchhole. It was best to keep one’s distance when firing, as King James II of Scotland discovered in 1460:
And while this Prince, more curious than became him, or the majesty of a King, did stand near hand the gunners when the artillery was discharged, his thigh bone was dug in two with a piece of a mis-framed gun that brake in shooting, by the which he was stricken to the ground and died hastily.
With no mishaps and enough precharged chambers ready to be wedged in place, a slow but steady rate of fire could be maintained.
While the guns boomed, the servants and cabin boys polished the officers’ steel armor and washed and mended their clothes. Belowdecks, the storekeeper kept a daily check on the equipment and provisions. The galley boy cooked the single daily hot meal over a sand-filled firebox on the deck, and the men ate the results off wooden trenchers with their fingers or pocketknives. Every crew member, from the captains down, received the same basic daily rations: a pound and a half of biscuit, two and a half pints of water, and small measures of vinegar and olive oil, together with a pound of salt beef or half a pound of pork, or rice and cod or cheese instead of the meat on fasting days. Delicacies like dried fruit were reserved for the top brass and would prove vital in preserving their health.
The officers passed on orders from the quarterdeck, the part of the main deck abaft the mainmast, or climbed the ladder to the poop deck that formed the roof of the sterncastle to get a better
view. Meanwhile the pilots calculated their position and corrected their course. With the simple instruments at their disposal, it was a laborious business. As the ships sailed south, the angle of the Pole Star above the horizon declined, and by a fairly simple calculation their latitude could be established. To calculate the angle the pilots used a smaller, simplified version of an instrument that had evolved over the centuries for celestial observation. The mariner’s astrolabe consisted of a brass circle suspended from a ring at the top to ensure it stayed as vertical as possible on the swaying deck. The alidade, a sight bar that pivoted from the center of the circle, was aligned with the star—assuming it was not obscured by clouds—and the altitude was read off a degree scale marked around the circumference. It was a recent invention, and since it was made of light sheet brass it tended to swing in a strong wind, which made accurate readings exasperatingly tricky to take.
Each night the Pole Star rode lower in the sky until finally, about nine degrees above the equator, it touched the sea and disappeared over the horizon. To the novices who were spending their first nights under southern skies, it seemed as if the world had suddenly flipped over. Even veterans paused to wonder before readjusting themselves to the unsettling new shape of the heavens. The Portuguese were the first Europeans to confront the problem of navigating south of the equator, and without the Pole Star as their guide they had learned to calculate their latitude by measuring the altitude of the sun at noon. Squinting directly at the sun—again, assuming clouds were not in the way—was not a pleasant task, and since no timepiece had been developed that was accurate at sea, numerous readings had to be taken to hit the meridian, the point when it was at the top of its arc. Besides, the sun was a much less reliable partner than the Pole Star. Since its ecliptic does not follow the celestial equator—in other words, since its path through the sky does not line up with the earth’s equator projected out into space—its meridian angle from the equator varies on each day of the year. A navigator who wanted to know his latitude by reference to the sun therefore needed to compensate for that variable. Again, the Portuguese had a head start. Gama’s ships carried with them the Rule of the Sun, a series of lengthy tables and detailed instructions that King John II’s committee of mathematicians had drawn up in 1484. The tables gave a figure for the declination of the sun—its angle from the equator at noon—on any given day, and the instructions told a navigator how to apply the figure to his reading. Faced with such a laborious series of tasks, many preferred to forgo celestial navigation and trust their gut instincts, but Vasco da Gama was a stickler for the rules.
